


Toadstone

by delectablytenaciousbird



Series: If I Had Your Voice [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Slice of Life, no toads were harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 06:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delectablytenaciousbird/pseuds/delectablytenaciousbird
Summary: There's a toad in the kitchen.It’s slowly making its way across the cool, rust-coloured tile towards Bucky, where he’s sat cross-legged on the floor. It’s little hands and legs, or maybe just legs, Bucky’s not sure, move individually as it marches steadily forward. It has webbed toes, and bumpy green skin, and a look on its face that says it knows exactly where it's going. Bucky's not sure if he’s ever seen a toad before. If he has, he doesn’t remember.





	Toadstone

Toad by Norman MacCaig (1910-1996) 

 

Stop looking like a purse. How could a purse

squeeze under the rickety door and sit,

full of satisfaction, in a man's house?

 

You clamber towards me on your four corners -

right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.

 

I love you for being a toad,

for crawling like a Japanese wrestler,

and for not being frightened.

 

I put you in my purse hand, not shutting it,

and set you down outside directly under

every star.

 

A jewel in your head? Toad,

you've put one in mine,

a tiny radiance in a dark place.

 

⁂

 

On the map, Bucky thinks the shape of the Monongahela National Forest looks like a volcano, or maybe a campfire blowing smoke into the sky. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about that on the drive there, to the cabin that's right on the edge of the middle of nowhere. Forests are old, and volcanoes are older, and Bucky finds it comforting to know that, in comparison to the things around him, he’s still young.

The cabin is close enough to New York in case the world ends, but far enough from New York to definitely _not_ be New York. They’re running away, although Steve hasn’t said it. So far, running away has involved a lot of walking, and sitting in the sun, and sex. Or walking, then having sex in the sun where they probably shouldn’t be. It’s good. Steve’s learning, albeit slowly, how to just sit. How to just sit in the sun, and how to walk instead of march, and how to love on Bucky just right. It’s really good, actually. Nicer than Bucky knows how to say.

He doesn’t want to think about that right now, though. Instead he wants to think about the toad.

There's a toad in the kitchen. It’s slowly making its way across the cool, rust-coloured tile towards Bucky, where he’s sat cross-legged on the floor. It’s little hands and legs, or maybe just legs, Bucky’s not sure, move individually as it marches steadily forward. It has webbed toes, and bumpy green skin, and a look on its face that says it knows exactly where it's going. Bucky's not sure if he’s ever seen a toad before. If he has, he doesn’t remember. 

He does remember reading Wind In The Willows as a child though, sat with Steve in the narrow bedroom he had to share with his mom. He’s pretty sure that the toad in those stories had a motorcar obsession, and went to jail for twenty years for grand theft auto. Steve used to copy the little illustrations. 

Bucky smiles to himself, and wonders if toads have the equivalent to a smile, the way dogs wag their tails or cats slow blink. The toad shows no smile, though, just keeps crawling along until it steps into the rectangle of evening light spilling through the window, filtered by the pine trees surrounding the cabin. The same trees Steve is currently sat outside on the porch drawing. If Bucky concentrates, through the open door and underneath the birdsong and the wind, he can hear the scratch of his pencil. 

Bucky takes a breath and leans forward, slowly placing his flesh hand in the toads path. It stops for a moment, thinking, then crawls onto his palm. Bucky scoops it up and stands, half-sheltering it with his metal hand so it won’t hop away and fall to its death. 

It’s feet are wet and sticky against his skin. He lifts it to eye level to look at it. The toad looks back. The way its eyes are set into its head make it look angry, and it’s mouth is a wide, flat line. It’s endearing, in a way. It reminds him of Steve. 

Bucky sniffs the toad, and it doesn’t smell like much. 

Keeping the toad level, he crosses the kitchen to the door that leads out onto the porch. He slips his feet into Steve’s sandals, feels the missmatching indents of his toes in the suede, and gets the imagine of Steve stuffing yesterday's paper into his shoes. Bucky’s fond of that memory.

The porch wraps around the cabin in an L-shape, stood on stilts to accommodate for the incline of the hill, and there are half a dozen steps right as you walk out of the kitchen door that lead down onto the forest floor. Steve is sat on a worn and weathered bench to Bucky’s right, sketchbook propped up on his knee. His page is full of trees, and something vaguely squirrel shaped. 

Bucky doesn’t make much sound when he moves, but Steve still turns and gives him a smile and soft a "hey." He has a very nice smile. Stupid handsome. 

Bucky doesn’t reply, just sits down next to him and lifts his metal hand. 

“Oh,” Steve says, always observant, “A toad.”

“Yep,” Bucky replies. "Sure is."

Steve gives him a look. The toad blinks up at them, peeved.

“Looks just like you,” Bucky continues, “thought you might know what to do with him.” 

"Gee, thanks. I'm flattered," Steve laughs. “Where’d you find him?”

“He found me. Just crawled into the house.” 

Steve gives him another stupid handsome smile and rests his arm along the back of the bench. The toad fidgets in his palm. It tickles.

“I’m gonna go put him somewhere damp,” Bucky decides after a long second.

Steve bumps their thighs together gently. “Wash your hands after,” he says.

“Yes, Ma,” Bucky jokes as he stands up, and Steve laughs to himself as Bucky walks down the porch steps. Bucky likes thinking about his mom. He doesn’t exactly miss her, because it's hard to miss someone you don’t really remember, but it’s nice to think he had her once. 

There’s a small stream about thirty yards from the cabin, so Bucky heads for that, his footfalls rhythmic on the bed of dirt and dried leaves. Once he’s reached the water he kneels down, knees denting the soft mud, and opens his palm. The toad hops down onto the bank without hesitation, so Bucky doesn’t linger either. Just turns and heads back to the cabin, to Steve, pausing briefly to wash his hands in the outside tap. 

Steve’s waiting for him on the porch when he’s done. His arm is still resting on the back of the bench, so Bucky folds himself into his side and rests his head on his stupid broad shoulder. Albeit slowly, Bucky’s learning to just sit too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos, comments and feedback give me life <3 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @delectablytenaciousbird and send me stucky prompts!


End file.
